we had a Comic Connection
by mineiswithyours
Summary: A dinky comic book shop shouldn't attract Dean Winchester, but it does - or maybe it's the trenchcoat-wearing man inside it. How to connect over nerdiness, sci-fi, and a tonne of coffee. Destiel, AU,  all-human .
1. we had a Comic Connection

_#sometimes for fun i imagine random caps of dean as caps from some sort of dean/cas au #like maybe this is a still from some film about a man named Dean Winchester meeting Castiel Novak in the rows of some comic book shop #and maybe one day Dean takes a break from browsing the Enterprise models to browse through the store's trashy book selection #which in no way has anything to do with noticing the really hot tousled haired guy also standing there #and it's not like Dean starts regularly frequenting said shop for the hopes of glancing the guy again #and maybe through repeat encounters #and several not-dates at the coffee shop round the corner #Dean comes to learn all about Castiel and his quirks #and how he's actually one of his favourite sci-fi authors #he also comes to learn #that he's fallen hopelessly in love with him_

(can't remember where that's from, but I want to write it and so.)

(cross-posted from tumblr)

—-

The bell of the comics shop jingles as Dean Winchester ventures inside. It's a lazy summer day in one of the southern states of America: which one exactly, he doesn't care to know. His job takes him along dusty highways with stodgy (and dodgy) roadside bars, where his only company is unfortunately his little brother and a beautiful, purring Impala…and the greats of rock music, but that's hardly companionship.

This shop, being just a little sublet off a grander book store - it's probably a franchise of some sort, judging from the clientele - doesn't even have A/C. It's got one off-white fan, spinning lazily. Under it, piles and piles of comic books line the shelves, stacked up to the ceiling.

He casts his gaze around the shop. The counter, where there should be a fat dude munching cheezles or doritos or something orange and unhealthy, is empty. 'Course, the crumbs are still there, but. The little fridge behind it, selling beers and juices in equal measure, is humming, and the stickers for the prices are more than a little faded.

In short, Dean Winchester feels like he's come home.

In high school, he was pretty much a jock. Ran around a lot, could fight with the punks and everything. But his little brother? Was a bit of a geek. Could quote the specifications of every knife under the sun - length, make, history of branding and stories behind them. Picking up birthday presents was always easy (get him a book about knives), at least until Sam asked him for some superhero comics.

Then it got hard for Dean to pry _himself_ out of the shop. Superman, Batman, all those are things every kid learns about. But Transmetropolitan? A future city steeped in every kind of future sin? What about Falling Leaves? Sin City? Sandman? Neuromancer, Pulse, Cocoon, American Gods, Heartbroken. A man could spend a hundred lifetimes in the lives of these characters, and yet not learn enough.

So it's become like an addiction he can't cure: whenever they stop over at a town that looks like it's got a comic book shop (geekery shop, Sam calls them - ironically), Dean's _got _to go inside.

All the titles here are unfamiliar. His shoes carry him to the first familar 'verse he sees - models of the Enterprise, mostly. His hands brush over them, marvelling at the way they work, how the ship would work if humans got into space like the Trekkies did.

Dean likes science fiction novels. He got into them after English class studied Neuromancer - they had a weird teacher, but Mr. Singer got them all hooked on the weird, sci-fi stuff. Dean loved the war ones especially - Heinlein and Ringo, Hubbard was a bit of a freak but could write the pulp stuff _good, _Zelazny, Novak, Piers Anthony even. Asimov. Weber. Baen - he loved that publisher, loved it good. He mutters the names under their breath,

He wondered if any of Baen's graphic novels made it into this shop?

Dean turns around.

There's a man there, tousle-haired and blue eyes ice-sharp, staring at him. His trenchcoat is well-used, and he's smiling and it's all kinds of breath-taking, heart-breaking.

"Hi," the man says.

"Hi," Dean returns, his brow furrowing.

"I notice you're looking at Enterprise models?"

"Yeah. What of it?" He's brusque and rough because god-damn-it-all, the man's got the most disarming smile he's ever met, and Dean Winchester has seen a fuck-ton of disarming smiles in his profession, and they're dangerous people. Unpredictable.

"Most people come in here to pick up the independent titles, is all. They generally avoid this area like the plague."

"How cliche," Dean rumbles back, and huffs. "I'm sorry. That was uncalled for."

"I like to say cliches," the man returns, and sticks out his hand. "I'm Castiel."

"Dean," Dean says, and inclines his head, shaking Castiel's hand firmly. The grip is just right, the calluses on his thumb and web indicating a ton of writing. Judging by the pens sticking out of one of his trenchcoat's pockets, and the numbers written on his wrist, Dean guesses that Castiel is some kind of geeky accountant.

"Like I said, cliches: Dean! I believe this is the start of a _beautiful_ friendship."

"I'm gonna be out of town in three hours, Castiel," Dean says. "I've got a kind of _moving _job."

"Pity," Castiel says, and drops his hand. Dean hadn't even noticed they were still holding over to each other. "Maybe you're free for a drink?"

"I don't drink with strange men," Dean says, then pauses, because Castiel _is _attractive, and god-damn if those puppy-dog eyes don't move him a little. "But I'd be willing to make an exception for not-strange men? I mean. Maybe next time I'm in town, I'll drop by."

"Good," Castiel says. "In the mean-time, can I recommend some of the sci-fi here?" His gaze is infinitely amused. "You read it?"

"Yeah," Dean says. "I do."

"Heinlein?"

"Definitely."

"You ever read A Moon Is A Harsh Mistress?"


	2. we had a Cosmic Connection

_ #sometimes for fun i imagine random caps of dean as caps from some sort of dean/cas au #like maybe this is a still from some film about a man named Dean Winchester meeting Castiel Novak in the rows of some comic book shop #and maybe one day Dean takes a break from browsing the Enterprise models to browse through the store's trashy book selection #which in no way has anything to do with noticing the really hot tousled haired guy also standing there #and it's not like Dean starts regularly frequenting said shop for the hopes of glancing the guy again #and maybe through repeat encounters #and several not-dates at the coffee shop round the corner #Dean comes to learn all about Castiel and his quirks #and how he's actually one of his favourite sci-fi authors #he also comes to learn #that he's fallen hopelessly in love with him_

(I have no clue where this is going, just enjoy the ride.)

—-

Part 2/?

—-

It's a muggy summer day in the southern states of America - which one, Dean Winchester does not care to know. The mosquitoes are buzzing around his head - _again_ - and Sam is making disgruntled noises against the hood of his beautiful Impala. More or less, this is because Dean has parked himself and his Impala outside of yet another small-town bookshop, and is in the process of going inside with a stoned look on his face.

"The Impala's _mine. _At two-eighty miles an hour-three-eighty-four? _Eleventy-thousand and six?_" Sam says, increasing the number to something vaguely ridiculous in the hopes of getting his brother to drop the geekery (oh, the irony) and start caring about his car. Again.

Dean just tosses him the car keys. Sam sighs, and resigns himself to sitting in the car, waiting for his devil-may-care, crazy, fun brother to re-emerge from the sci-fi nerd that he becomes sometimes. He blames himself for the transition. If he hadn't managed to get so cut up in a knifefight, Dean wouldn't have sat for hours beside his hospital bed, reading pulp science fiction novels to while the time, and eventually started being hooked on it.

There's no sound as Dean breaches the store's 'Groovy' bubble. Vinyl and vintage decor is everywhere. His shoes are cushioned on the 'disco' doormat on the other side of the door, the same way his conscious, manly thoughts have gone all sparkly when he sees a new book from James "Jimmy" Novak displayed prominently on the New Releases rack.

He's about to go all … immature - the way that college freshmen crowd around his little brother and _make happy noises _whenever he's around. Instead, Dean 'meanders' in the shortest line possible, picks the hardcover up like he's cradling a baby, and buys it almost immediately. The acned girl with awesome sunglasses resting on her head at the counter melts into a puddle when he grins at her, and almost immediately gives him a discount. He tips her outrageously in stained and tattered bills, enough that she can buy her own copy of whatever romance junk she's interested in.

She says it's Carey's _Kushiel _series that gets her going, if he knows what she means. Dean follows her small leer enough that he knows he's going to be starring in whatever fantasies that involves tonight, and resolves never to read that book. He flees immediately.

By the time he reaches his car, his hands are already cracking open the cover of his new book. His eyes already drawn to the first words, to the dedication.

His body goes cold all over as he realizes his brother is in the driver's seat, has the keys in the ignition, and is _driving.  
><em>

Fuck.

But Novak's words have already stolen him away.

—-

The first words read:

_To the handsome stranger I met in a comic book store,_

_Who helped me finish this recalcitrant whore of a book._

_That sort of rhymed. Anyway, thank you._

—-

And then the title:

_Congratulations_

_—-  
><em>

And then. And then. And _then.  
><em>

Sam drives them through what feels like seventeen hundred miles of Arizona, passing through Phoenix and heading to Nogales, where their next package is due. Then they double back. They turn right along that long, long highway, at Tucson. Sam stops the Impala to snore, slumped over the wheel, until the sun sets and the engine turns over again. He doesn't bother his older brother, just turns his music up to full volume without having to hear Dean butcher the songs. He can see the signs in his brother's facial expressions. He's gonna want to settle down again. Sam sighs. Some days, his brother can be terribly unpredictable, especially when it comes to fights with thugs in the back streets of big cities, or maybe _especially_ con artists in the parlors of Las Vegas. Some days, he's just a great big lug who really needs a girlfriend. Or a boyfriend. Or just someone who'll clean up after him, because shit, Sam's not going to do that for him. Domestically. When it comes to hauling mostly dead corpses…that's different.

"Sam," Dean's voice breaks through Freddie Mercury's. Sam hits the off button on the radio. "Do you remember where I bought A Moon Is A Harsh Mistress?"

"Not the place where you donated it?" Sam asks, because he's sort of thinking that the girl at the counter was kind of cute, didn't have a boyfriend, and Dean's crazy enough to want to re-buy a book that he donated. Probably.

"No. Where I bought it."

"Uh."

The Impala purrs slowly, on the open road past (through) Deming, its carriage bumping on the rocks and gravel on the ground. The mountains, reaching up into the sky with its huddled clouds, help Dean in memory. They're the same shade as a trenchcoat, with blue, sky eyes. Stormy. God help him.

"You met someone there, didn't you."

"Shut up, Sammy."

"You _did_…Fine. I remember."

—-

It's a long road and they deliver two more packages on the way, but finally the Impala slides into semi-familiar surroundings, and Dean relaxes.

They get a room at the motel with two separate beds, and pile their meager belongings into the center of the room.

"This is going to be _so _familiar," Sam deadpans to the empty room. Dean has already left. The door clicked shut, with a certain finality.

"I'm gonna get myself another girl to pass the time, I guess," Sam mutters, and walks into the shower.


	3. we had a Cosmetic Connection

_#sometimes for fun i imagine random caps of dean as caps from some sort of dean/cas au #like maybe this is a still from some film about a man named Dean Winchester meeting Castiel Novak in the rows of some comic book shop #and maybe one day Dean takes a break from browsing the Enterprise models to browse through the store's trashy book selection #which in no way has anything to do with noticing the really hot tousled haired guy also standing there #and it's not like Dean starts regularly frequenting said shop for the hopes of glancing the guy again #and maybe through repeat encounters #and several not-dates at the coffee shop round the corner #Dean comes to learn all about Castiel and his quirks #and how he's actually one of his favourite sci-fi authors #he also comes to learn #that he's fallen hopelessly in love with him_

(the reason I post this synopsis is so you can see just how far I stray from it. And also. How do I pull off suspense...if you already know the ending? That's ... interesting, no?)

—-

Part 3/?

—-

Sam hefts his crate to his shoulder like it's a feather, and doesn't smile when the lady in charge huffs and puffs to get another crate even out of the delivery truck, bending her back and revealing beads of sweat on all sorts of delicious assets in the dry heat (that he fears his brother now fails to appreciate, judging from his urge to settle down. With a _man._). Sam sneaks a hand under the crate and lifts it up, allowing her to stand up straight. It's a perfectly gentlemanly move. Unfortunately, he has ulterior motives.

Namely, if Dean is looking for a certain someone and it has to do with books, librarians in this burg will probably know them. He thinks. It's worked before. Sort of.

Also, librarians in general are hot. He thinks. Sort of.

"Thanks," she says, flicking a curl of brunette hair behind her ear, a drawl breaking through for a second. "But y' didn't have to help."

"But I want to," Sam tilts his head. He doesn't initiate conversation…yet.

—-

His name is Castiel, Sam relays to Dean that night, as they stare up at the blank ceiling. He's two years older than Dean, and was born here. He leaves for long periods of time. He's kind. Always returns his library books. Frequents the little comic book shop more than anywhere else.

Yeah, Dean says, expelling it with a sigh. ...He's got it bad.

Her name is Anna, Anna Milton. Sam stares up at the ceiling and wonders about it. She's sort of gorgeous. Amazing. All those kinds of words along with…well…for the first time he's sort of glad he's stuck in a small town thanks-to-Dean.

—-

The comic book shop's bell jingles as Dean strides in through the front door. He stops short immediately. There's a tousle-haired man standing among the shelves, nothingatall like the way he's seen behind his eyelids on long nights driving through Arizona.

Nothing at all. Like. What.

Dean sidles up beside Castiel, his eyes flicking over the books Castiel's browsing through.

The titles nearly give him heart attacks. Because clearly God is out for him, what with his murdering, lying, stealing ways.

Castiel's hands, accountant's hands, are on this doorstopper of a softcover called _Kushiel's _something, and it involves rose petals on a woman's bare back with a tattoo, and immediately Dean notes that Castiel's fingers are long, and his nails are short and well-bitten. Also, he notes that he's standing in the sex-books section, because all around him are horny-god-physique men of the Grecian appreciation and fainting damsels, not to mention cowboys of the same physique and that's _definitely_ pornography…

He must have made some noise, because immediately the man turns around, and beams, for a moment. Then the grin abruptly loses voltage and becomes somewhat small and shy. Dean wants to tousle his hair and make his smile not shy. Yes. No. What. What is he thinking. Guh. _Is _he even thinking right now? _How _is he thinking right now? What - who - bah.

"Hi." The man walks up closer. "Dean Winchester, right?" He puts his hand out to shake. "I'd remember y-I'm Castiel, again." The other hand tightens on the sex book, and he drops it to his side, somewhat awkwardly.

Castiel. Dean rolls it around on his tongue, between his lips, and grasps Castiel's hand. He tries not to feel the dryness of skin on skin, callus on callus, rough hand to rough hand. The way the trench's fabric hides Castiel's wrist. "Castiel," he says. "You look g-It's good to see you again."

They stare at each other. Mutually, their hands break away from each other. The world is still.

"How. How's the moving job?" Despite the mild stutter, Castiel's eyes are dead-on with Dean's, and Dean realizes abruptly that they're having a Moment, (while the other party is holding a _sex book)_ and unlike other Moments he's had he's not about to maim the person in front of him…(who's still holding a sex book.)

"Good," Dean says, and cocks his head to the side, wondering about that statement. "I mean, it's on hold for a while. Sometimes a man gets bored of wandering."

"I'd imagine," Castiel says. "Will you be in town long?" Dean has to wonder if he imagined a pleading tone in the other man's voice. His imagination, surely.

"Yeah," Dean says. "For quite a while. I'm not sure how long, though."

"Enough time to get a drink? Um. A coffee? I don't drink too much alcohol. Not at this early time of the day at least."

"Where's a good place?"

—-

They have coffee at a little shop and spend the entire time bickering about the _sex book_, which is sitting between the two of them, mockingly.

Dean shudders even as he so much looks at the blurb, and Castiel is animated, almost larger-than-life as he gestures and bites into his burger. They're large bites, too, and somewhere _deep _in the corner of his mind Dean wants to fill Castiel's lips with a large something else … he buries that thought. Heh. _Deep._

_…_Oh, God.

"I think you should read it before you make any sort of judgment," Castiel says finally, looking at him over the rim of his trenchcoat.

They take a gulp of their coffees.

"Well, um, it's been fun," Dean mumbles. "I should probably get going now."

"Yes…it's…been pleasant to meet you. I have commitments, too."

"Got to get back to those books, I suppose?"

Castiel visibly starts, then frowns. "I thought we were over the whole 'romance-books-are-not-for-twisted-people, Dean."

Dean rolls his eyes. "No, I mean your accounting books. Right?"

"Yes, accounting books…exactly. Financial ratios and influx of …" Castiel trails off. "I see you're bored. Never mind. It's a small town, so I suppose I'll see you soon."

They shake hands again and pay for their coffees and leave separately.

—-

Sam hears more about Castiel's lunch not-date with Dean from Anna than he does from Dean.


	4. we had a Cometic Connection

_#sometimes for fun i imagine random caps of dean as caps from some sort of dean/cas au #like maybe this is a still from some film about a man named Dean Winchester meeting Castiel Novak in the rows of some comic book shop #and maybe one day Dean takes a break from browsing the Enterprise models to browse through the store's trashy book selection #which in no way has anything to do with noticing the really hot tousled haired guy also standing there #and it's not like Dean starts regularly frequenting said shop for the hopes of glancing the guy again #and maybe through repeat encounters #and several not-dates at the coffee shop round the corner #Dean comes to learn all about Castiel and his quirks #and how he's actually one of his favourite sci-fi authors #he also comes to learn #that he's fallen hopelessly in love with him_

—-

Part 4/?

—-

The world spins, unutterably crazily, as Dean tilts back yet another shot. The small-town bar is humming with quiet conversation, mixed with bursts of unbelievable laughter. Sam is somewhere on the square, dancing slowly to old jazz with his new fixation, the town librarian. Dean notices that the folks of the town, especially the older ones, glance at them and look away, talking pointedly to each other. Dean takes his twelfth shot, and sets them all in a row. They are a very pretty row.

"They're a very pretty row," he says, and is prow'd of his words. He barely even slurs.

"Yes, they are," the barman says, and swipes down the counter with a matted rag. "Would you like another?"

"Yeah, I could use — use — could I have another please?"

The inane conversation aside, most of Dean's mind is focusing on the dance floor. More specifically, whether a thatch of tousled hair would be showing up anytime soon. After all, accountants couldn't do their money thing all the time, right, and most of the town was here — scratch that, all the town was here.

Outside the rampantly quiet party the shops are all closed with their shutters down, and tumbleweeds may as well have swept through the streets. Instead dried leaves swirl with the scouring wind. And apart from the poetry, that means that unless Castiel is a complete hermit, he should be here.

Where is he?

Dean'd read that sex book, eventually, and he wants to dish-diss-discush-discuss that book, _in all its grand details,_ with someone who actually _liked _the thing.

(Also, he'd re-read _Congratulations _last night, and wanted to know if Castiel'd ever read the same thing. But then again, Congratulations was in a helluva weird niche. Heinlein was classic, Kushiel was…not… and those were the only two indications he had of Castiel's taste. So he mightn't not like it. So yeah.)

The radio flicks off.

"Right," a man says, his gaze sweeping over the room. "Time for some _live _music."

The jig is up.

And it is _horribly _old-fashioned.

—-

It was somewhere past 3am when Sam left the bar. His older brother was passed out over the counter, though the bartender had already left a blanket around his shoulders before beginning the closure of his bar. Sam slid greenbacks under his brother's cheek; crisp, fresh ones, unlike the ones his brother kept in his pockets.

"Would you call me when he tries to go somewhere?" Sam slid an arm around Anna's waist. The bartender nodded stiffly.

Under his embrace, Anna shivered against him.

"Cold?"

"No. I don't need your—_Castiel._"

"Anna, I _did _try to come. Work held me up, but you know th — oh, hello."

"Castiel, right? My brother's said some things about you."

"I hope they were nice. Who is your — are you related to Dean?"

"Yup. Nose."

"Excuse me?"

"It's the nose."

"Oh."

"Did you sneak one or two drinks while I wasn't looking, Sammy?" Anna whispered to him.

"Anyway," Castiel said, rubbing at his eyes. "I'm sorry that I missed the party. Though -"

"My brother's inside, sleeping."

"…Oh."

"Have a good night, Castiel," Anna said, and almost ran away from Castiel.

Sam sneaks a look back at Castiel before they round the bend, heading back towards the library.

Castiel looks lost, and more than a little unsure of himself. His eyes flick once to the bar. That is the image that Sam carries of him out of their first-time meeting, all the way to their ends.


	5. we had a Monetic Connection

_#sometimes for fun i imagine random caps of dean as caps from some sort of dean/cas au #like maybe this is a still from some film about a man named Dean Winchester meeting Castiel Novak in the rows of some comic book shop #and maybe one day Dean takes a break from browsing the Enterprise models to browse through the store's trashy book selection #which in no way has anything to do with noticing the really hot tousled haired guy also standing there #and it's not like Dean starts regularly frequenting said shop for the hopes of glancing the guy again #and maybe through repeat encounters #and several not-dates at the coffee shop round the corner #Dean comes to learn all about Castiel and his quirks #and how he's actually one of his favourite sci-fi authors #he also comes to learn #that he's fallen hopelessly in love with him_

(Interlude: This would not be in the movie. Deleted scenes, maybe. Otherwise known as me attempting to pass the Bechdel test, and ultimately failing. fffff)

—-

Part ?

—-

The relative safety of the beach-house is entirely cast into too much doubt. Anna thinks so, in any case, as she slumps against the door. There are too many windows on this hot, muggy summer morning (…_and Sam is waiting back in their hometown_) that let the thick wind in. Blistering wind - and their housesitter, one Mizz Grenadine.

Nothing in _this _town is particularly real, thanks to the people who live in it. She's only here, feeling only 'just so' real, because of her brother.

(Sometimes she hates her brother, because thanks to the words that now bubble from the back of his throat and from under his soul he's not entirely _her brother_, the way he was when they gambolled around in the snow and had verbal 'it's-not-a-debate-it's-an-argument' consisting entirely of one random word and all the different ways they could say it.)

Mizz Grenadine pushes open the door and dusts her immaculately clean shoes off on the porch, before taking two more steps further into Anna's personal space.

"Back again?" the older woman asks. Her gaze doesn't meet Anna's, but she tuts anyway. The disapproval is almost palpable. She brushes past Anna, tidying up the knick-knacks that Cas— _James _- left on the table. Anna's disturbed to notice that although the table is almost shining with polish, the areas where she moved her brother's pens (out of curiosity, purely) are musty with dust and dirt.

"Your precious library had you get some time off, was it?"

"Y-es," Anna says, testing out the word as though it is some kind of poison. With Mizz Grenadine, anything is possible.

"_Why _someone like you should be working in such a grotty waste of time as a _library _is utterly beyond me, Miss Anna. Your parents would be mortified that someone as well-brought up as you is working in such a … _public _… place."

Anna pursed her lips and shook her hair out of her eyes. Leaned forward, and made sure to lock her gaze with Mizz Grenadine's. "And yet, I enjoy it. I can live off the salary they give me. I love words. I love books. I love introducing people who barely read to the wonders of it. I _do _hate it when they leave stains on the books, but if they are reading it day, night, so much that they can't put it down when they're multi-tasking, then I consider my job fulfilled."

Mizz Grenadine huffed. "And when can I expect _Master James _back?"

…And they were back to the subject of her brother again, the way the conversations always did when it involved her personal life, no matter who it was.

In that way, it was why she loved her hometown so much. Perhaps her parents had abandoned it, but in it she was just Anna, from a long line of Novaks (okay. Miltons from her mother's side) who'd been staying there since the first colonists settled into the location.

Not Anna Novak, sister to the _James Novak_. Not Anna Novak, daughter to industrial giant Gabriel Novak. Just Anna.

But even in that hometown, she couldn't escape everything. Maybe that was why she treasured Sam so.

She pushed her way past Mizz Grenadine, and escaped out into the summer sunshine.

The swing had seen some better times, before. She settled into the planks that she and Jimmy had played with, and lost her thoughts in soulless, descriptive words.

(_The _day the 'it's-not-an-argument-it's-a-debate' fights stopped was when Anna, utterly frustrated and pissed off by life in general and her brother in specific, moved on from 'piano' to 'James'. _He'd _moved on with 'prostitute'. The day after, he announced he was to be called Castiel at all times.)

(It had been Thursday. If it had been Wednesday Anna might have started calling him Odin, no matter what he'd wanted to be called.)

(Mainly because right after he started with _that _word, she poked him in the eye. And made sure he fell - right down the stairs.)

(The Circumstances Of That Incident will never be known outside of family.)

(Ever.)

(…Well. Maybe Sam.)

(Or that random stranger in their town's bookshop.)

She read _Congratulations_, too.

(She reads every one of his books, and keeps them in the library, in a semi-prominent place where everyone who's interested can see it. — But — she doesn't make any reaction to when one of her visitors is gushing about it, and uses her mother's maiden name at all times.)


	6. we had a Genetic Connection

_#sometimes for fun i imagine random caps of dean as caps from some sort of dean/cas au #like maybe this is a still from some film about a man named Dean Winchester meeting Castiel Novak in the rows of some comic book shop #and maybe one day Dean takes a break from browsing the Enterprise models to browse through the store's trashy book selection #which in no way has anything to do with noticing the really hot tousled haired guy also standing there #and it's not like Dean starts regularly frequenting said shop for the hopes of glancing the guy again #and maybe through repeat encounters #and several not-dates at the coffee shop round the corner #Dean comes to learn all about Castiel and his quirks #and how he's actually one of his favourite sci-fi authors #he also comes to learn #that he's fallen hopelessly in love with him_

—-

Part 5/?

—

The phone rings wildly, off the hook. It clatters around on the floor until Dean Winchester picks it up. A moment later the phone rings again, and this time Dean picks up.

"Yo."

"Dean!" Castiel's voice appears relieved. "Look, I'm just about to take off for work, I'm going out of town. I was wondering if you'd like to meet up before I go."

"Work? Out of town?"

Dean is wondering why he's still here, then, in this sleepy burg, if Castiel moves on out of town every so often. It has a nice comic book shop and (yes, some of those Novak books are _first editions_) but not enough to keep _him _happy.

"Yeah, just for once." Castiel smiles, he can hear Castiel smile through the phone. "So, meet up?"

"Uh, yes," Dean says. "The coffee shop?"

—

The matron at the coffee shop bustles over as soon as the door jangles a welcome. "Castiel! Dean! Welcome. Welcome - what would you like to have to drink, dear?"

"Espresso," Castiel shoulders in before Dean can say anything. "Three of them."

Dean's eyebrows go up to his hairline, then try to go up more when the matron only nods and turns to him like this is a normal order for Castiel. What _does _an accountant _do _that need so much coffee? "Just a mocha, thanks."

They stare at each other for a moment, before Castiel breaks it with a fit of laughter. "Your expression, Dean. Please, I am a working man."

"With that much coffee?"

Blue-collar (Dean is wearing a neatly pressed shirt today, and he quite likes the feel of it) stares at white-collar.

Castiel grins. "I just really like caffeine. Speaking of which…" He rummages around in his sling-bag and pops up with a book titled Callahan's Lady, which he slides across the counter. "For you. I found it in a used bookstore last time I took a trip out, and I think it'd do you some good."

Dean stares at Castiel, and takes the well-used book. "Sure…?"

"You'll enjoy it."

Dean starts in with what they were talking about last week (Emberverse), and they spend a pleasant afternoon, basking in the sun.

It's only after Castiel is gone, and Dean finishes the book that Castiel gave him, that Dean appreciates the joke.

When Castiel comes back, his house has one custom-made additional blowup-doll of Dean Winchester, courtesy of Dean, a blushing sister, and a laughing-far-too-hard Sam Winchester.

(Sometimes Castiel sleeps with it at night, then avoids Dean's gaze at their weekly meetings the next day.)


End file.
